Be Careful What You Wish For
by volley
Summary: "Now, if I could travel back in time I know exactly..." - An adventure stemming from Trip's and Malcolm's wishes in "Future Tense".
1. Chapter 1

This story has been in my mind for a long time. I finally managed to write it.

Grateful thanks to my beta readers, Gabi2305 and RoaringMice, and to Smirnoffmule who checked my marine language.

§ 1 §

Even before the comm sounded, Trip had emerged from the depths of unconsciousness to the silence of his quarters.

The silence. That's what had drawn him out of his dreams. Or, rather, the lack of that thrum that every crewman onboard recognised as the comforting sign that Enterprise's warp drive was properly working.

"O'Neil to Commander Tucker."

The voice of Donna O'Neil, alias DO, the Gamma shift's watch officer, sounded in the darkness. Correction: sounded in the eerie blue light cast by auxiliary power. Trip, by now wide awake, threw the covers aside and staggered to his desk, half-tripping over his discarded uniform.

"What's going on?" he asked, pressing the comm link open. He was still speaking when he overheard, through the link, Archer's voice paging the Bridge as well, followed a second later by Malcolm's.

"Systems are failing all over the ship, Sirs," DO replied for the benefit of them all.

"I'm on it," Trip said. He bent to grab his uniform and started pulling it on.

Archer's _On my way_ was cut in half, as also the comm system succumbed to whatever malfunction was threatening the ship.

* * *

><p>Reaching Engineering had taken longer than generally necessary. Turbo-lifts were kaput, so Trip had had to climb down two decks. When he finally entered his domain, on the catwalk level, he found Hess and Rostov already at work with the Gamma crew. Dropping out of warp had obviously woken them up too. Their quarters were on the same deck as Engineering, so they had beat him to it. Hannah Hess stood at a console, her hair arranged in a hasty and rather dishevelled ponytail. Michael Rostov was up on the warp drive platform, the frown that creased his face visible even in that less than optimal lighting.<p>

Trip let himself slide down on the stair's railings to the main floor. "How bad is it?" he asked outright, as he approached Hess.

"Sir," she said, acknowledging his arrival with but a glance. "Main power is off all over the ship. Quite a few primary systems are off-line."

"Life support?" Trip enquired, now by her side.

Hess gave a tense smile. "Cross our fingers, that's still working. As is grav plating, though I suppose I don't need to tell you that."

"Guess not. Michael?" Trip called, turning to the man.

Rostov smirked. "The warp engine is down. I'm running a diagnostic."

"Impulse drive?"

"Dead as well."

Trip rubbed his forehead, where tension was beginning to make itself known. "Peachy," he sighed. "Let's see what we can do." And he focused on the info that was scrolling on Hess's computer screen.

* * *

><p>Archer finally emerged into the darkened Bridge. In the eerie silence of the powerless ship, voices were unnaturally loud, every sound amplified. Dull thumps reverberated through the ship as the crew opened and closed hatches, and used access tubes. Archer climbed the last step and cast a glance around, taking in the forms of those already at work. The light was dim, but he could make out T'Pol, Hoshi and Malcolm bent over their consoles. Captain's quarters being on F deck, he was the last one here, and also quite out of breath when he finally reached the Chair. He made a mental note to visit the gym a bit more regularly.<p>

"Status report," he wheezed out.

T'Pol looked up, her face not losing any of her impassiveness. "Main power is down. Warp Drive and Impulse Drive are offline. So is the Comm System."

"Tactical Systems are offline," Malcolm echoed her darkly.

Archer turned to him and watched the man rub his forehead. If he hadn't gotten a headache already, undoubtedly now he was going to get one.

"Thank God Life Support is working," Malcolm added under his breath, "though I don't know for how long."

"Let's try to keep positive," Archer told him. "Could this have anything to do with that future ship?" he wondered.

They had just passed their fair share of troubles for having retrieved a mysterious ship with the corpse of a man who seemed to come from the future on board. Tholians and Sulibans had both claimed rights to it, and fought to gain possession of the prized vessel, but in the end the ship had disappeared, probably brought back into its time by whoever had lost it in the first place.

T'Pol looked up. "I see no logical connection to our recent… _incident_."

"You still don't believe in time travel, do you?" Archer shook his head and turned to Malcolm. "What about you, Lieutenant? What do you think?"

Malcolm winced. "I really don't know, Sir. What I think right now is that I'd better go down to the Armoury, to try and sort out this mess."

Archer nodded and followed with his eyes his Armoury Officer briskly walk to the access tube and disappear into it.

* * *

><p>Malcolm jumped off the last step and found himself in the corridor on D deck. He felt sluggish and tired, and heaved an inner sigh at the thought that his bunk was a long way off, given the situation at hand. Their recent close encounter with the Tholians and the Suliban had been no walk in the park for the man in charge of defending the ship, and when the threat had finally been over he'd been ready for a good night's sleep. And instead…<p>

As he pushed the hatch to Engineering open, Trip's weary voice broke into his musings. "Check those antimatter injectors again for me, will ya?" he heard him order.

Malcolm had thought it better to check with the Chief Engineer, before dropping down another couple of decks to his own department.

"Commander," he called.

Trip turned his head. Their eyes met, and suddenly the ground under Malcolm's feet was swaying. A salty smell assailed his nostrils. He felt wind on his face. He groped about not to lose his balance, and his hand found wet wood. A spray of sea water came crashing on the deck of… a _galleon_? He looked up and blinked. A fleet of sail-ships flying the English flag… A grey sea…

"He won't escape, that Medina devil!" a heavily accented voice he could hardly understand boomed beside him. It was followed by a coarse laugh. "We have the weather gauge!"

Malcolm looked down at himself and his jaw fell open. He was dressed in the most ridiculous outfit – puffy sleeves, lace collar, leather breast-piece, tall boots, and… good heavens! A sword hung in a sheathe at his left side.

"Set the topsails!" another voice called.

He turned to see a rugged man in dirty clothes pass a length of rope to… Trip?

Trip blinked.

"Heave!" the rugged man ordered. "Come on, lad, wake up!"

"Bloody hell," Malcolm mumbled. Trip turned, ran his eyes up and down him, and blinked again.

* * *

><p>"Check those antimatter injectors again for me, will ya?" Trip ordered Rostov.<p>

He rubbed his neck. He hadn't realised just how exhausted he was. Well, that future ship had absorbed him like nothing else ever had. He still regretted not being able to investigate it more.

"Commander!"

Trip turned to the voice of the Armoury Officer. Malcolm was coming towards him. Trip met his gaze and… suddenly things began to twist out of shape. Before his very eyes, Engineering morphed into another, very different place. _What the hell? _

A wilderness like he had never seen before extended before him, as far as his eyes could see. No trace of man-made structures, anywhere; just trees and fields and… A loud snort made him jump.

He turned. Some twenty metres beyond him, a group of large animals nibbled at the ferns around them. The rounded back… the spikes on the tail… the plates along the back… Stegosaurus. The damn thing was a Stegosaurus.

TBC

Looking forward to your comments!


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for all the nice reviews.

§ 2 §

"Sirs!"

Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed looked frozen in time. The moment Reed had called Tucker and Tucker had turned to him, they had stopped functioning, like robots with powercells that had run dry.

Hess gave Tucker and Reed, in turn, a last good, albeit futile, jerk, then turned to Rostov. "Find the Doctor," she said tautly. "Apparently whatever is upsetting ship's systems can also affect the crew. Ah – and Mike," she called after the man, who broke off his jog and turned, "inform the Armoury that their Chief is… uhm, _out of order_. Find a way to send word to the Bridge, too."

* * *

><p>"This can't be right," Trip breathed out, eyes still riveted on the scene before him, where the group of dinosaurs peacefully grazed on the ferns.<p>

"What in the bloody hell…"

The unexpected words made him jump a mile. He turned to find Malcolm behind him. "Do you _hafta_ sneak up on me like that?" he ranted.

Malcolm grabbed him by an arm. "Stay down," he urged in a whisper as he pulled him in a crouching position.

One of the Stegosaurusses – a male, if size was the meter by which one could distinguish the gender in these creatures – had lifted its head and seemed to be sniffing at the air.

"Where on earth are we?" Trip wondered.

"Where, I don't know. On Earth, we undoubtedly are. The question is _how_ we got here."

"No kiddin'..."

"It would be handy to have a phase pistol," Malcolm complained under his breath. "I swear, I'll get the Captain to-"

"The Stegosaurus is an herbivore," Trip interrupted him, suddenly feeling the need to convince his own self of the fact.

"Yeah. One hell of a herbivore," Malcolm commented dryly.

The beasts towered at what must be at least three metres of height. On their rounded backs they had large plates in two irregular rows, but Trip's eye kept going to the sharp spikes at the end of their tails. Herbivore or no herbivore, those did look quite dangerous.

Trip shook his head in the hope he'd wake up. When it didn't happen, he turned to cast a disbelieving look at Malcolm. "This isn't a dream, is it?"

"I've never had a dream quite this vivid," Malcolm breathed out.

* * *

><p>Malcolm watched Trip's rather worried gaze shift from his face to somewhere behind him. He turned and found himself face to face with a man of impressive bearing.<p>

"Mister Reed, what says you, how long till we catch up with the scum?"

Malcolm straightened his posture. In 1588 they may not have worn uniforms (_unfortunately_ – he mused – very conscious of his rather uncomfortable attire), but there was no mistaking the air of leadership that exuded from this man, even though he stood no taller than himself. Besides, he had read through his father's History of the Royal Navy and looked at the pictures enough times to know who this person was: Sir Francis Drake, the bold corsair at the service of Her Majesty Elizabeth I, the man who had helped defeat the Spanish Armada.

"Well, has my ordnance officer lost his tongue?" the man asked, a smile creeping on his face.

Malcolm cleared his throat. "No, my Lord," he managed. "As for your question… never too soon," he replied, diplomatically.

Bloody hell, what was going on? This was incredible! Malcolm stole a look at Trip. The man was barefoot and in clothes that were tattered and dirty, and was shooting him unmistakably fuming glances. Whether this was a dream or not, Trip looked decidedly less excited than he himself felt. Malcolm gave him a light shrug, a silent I-don't-know-how-we-ended-up-here; then took a deep breath of the salty sea breeze and turned to Drake.

"We shall have to close within 100 yards, to penetrate those thick oak hulls of theirs," he dared, remembering what he had read in that history book. He was beginning to enjoy this.

"Ah, but not too close, Mister Reed," Drake warned, pulling at his well-trimmed beard as his slightly bulging blue eyes smiled. "The Spanish's strength is hand-to-hand fighting, boarding enemy vessels. And we shall deny them that pleasure."

Malcolm narrowed his gaze. He could picture the very page in his father's book where it was explained how those very tactics had helped the English defeat the Spanish. "Indeed," he said without thinking, "that was—" Catching himself, he floundered a moment or two before continuing, "I am certain that strategy will serve us well and guide us to victory."

Drake frowned. "Are you feeling well, Mister Reed?"

Malcolm felt a blush rise. "I'm fine, Sir."

Blimey, why was everyone, in every century, always asking him that question? If he wasn't fond of ending up in Phlox's pristine Sickbay, he didn't want to think what it must be like to fall under the clutches of a ship's surgeon in 1588 – provided there even was one on board.

"Our ships may be smaller, but they are also lighter and more manoeuvrable," Drake went on, resuming his previous train of thought. "And, by God, we'll make that count! Give your gunners easy targets," he concluded, gripping the hilt of his sword more firmly.

"Aye! They'll enjoy that, Sir."

Malcolm smiled at the energy that exuded from the corsair. That was exactly the way he had imagined the man. Drake looked away and Malcolm followed his line of sight, landing on the men busy with the sails – among them one Trip Tucker that looked rather lost.

"What's that bloody man doing?" Drake suddenly burst out. "Hey, you! That's no way to-"

"Ah – he's a landsman, my Lord," Malcolm butted in, as images of floggings and keelhauls suddenly flashed through his mind. "He's a fine lad, though," he added quickly. "He'll learn fast."

Drake's piercing gaze bore into Malcolm's for one interminable moment. Malcolm was beginning to fear they'd _both_ end up experiencing one of those delightful punishments made famous by ancient movies like _Mutiny on the Bounty_, when the man said in a dark tone that felt quite threatening, "Make sure he does learn, Mister Reed, or feed him to the fish. We need men who know how to sail a ship."

And with that, he went off towards the Bridge.

No sooner had he got out of hearing range than Trip scrambled towards him, followed by the wary gazes of his fellow crewmen.

"I don't wanna learn a damn thing about sailin' a ship," he said angrily.

"Quiet," Malcolm urged, "or we'll _both_ end up fed to the fish!"

Trip put on his distinctive look of obdurate irritation, jaw jutting out. "They wouldn't throw the ship's _ordnance officer_ overboard, now, would they?" He smirked. "Couldn't I at least have been an officer too?"

Malcolm winced. "I'm afraid there are no engines in 1588."

"I hadn't noticed," Trip said through clenched teeth.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

§ 3 §

It didn't take Doctor Phlox very long to convince himself that he wasn't really made for going up and down a starship's access tubes. He'd been out of breath after the first few rungs. He wondered, not without irony, at the fact that he regularly gave physicals to the entire crew but disregarded his own shape. Indeed, his shape, especially when seen from a profile, had got to be a bit too rotund lately, if he was honest with himself.

Chef's fault – Phlox mused as he pulled himself up another step. In his weekly creations Chef made it a point not to overlook any ethnic group represented on board, and how was he – a Denobulan with an innate curiosity for life and its varieties – how was he to resist the temptation provided by all the dishes the man conjured up, all those different cuisines?

"Almost there, Doctor," Rostov called from a few rungs ahead, in reassuring tones.

"Good thing Engineering is only a couple of decks up," Phlox wheezed back. He laboriously managed the last few rungs, gratefully accepting Rostov's hand to help him emerge on D deck.

Phlox had complete faith in Captain Archer and his crew, but he couldn't suppress a shiver at the sight of the corridor, like the rest of the ship, bathed in the blue lights of auxiliary power. People and things were stark shapes, and sounds reminded him of those old war movies Commander Tucker was so fond of, where the action often took place on submarines that had to turn off their engines to elude the enemy's torpedoes.

But Rostov was already leading him through the hatch of Engineering, and what Phlox saw pushed all his concerns and phantasies into a corner of his mind. There were his two patients, and they definitely magnetised his attention: Commander Tucker was frozen with his body half-turned in the direction of Lieutenant Reed, who was standing a couple of metres from him in the act of walking.

"How has this happened?" Phlox panted out, reaching for his medical scanner and wishing his breathing would finally even out.

"That's a good question," Hannah Hess replied from a console nearby without turning away from her job. "They just stopped working. Not unlike the rest of ship's systems, come to think of it."

Phlox raised his scanner and started passing it over Commander Tucker's body. He studied the readings.

"Six fathom by the lead."

Phlox turned to Lieutenant Reed, who had muttered the strange words, and even Hess stopped for a moment what she was doing. "Lieutenant?" Phlox wondered, taking a step towards the man.

"Phlox!"

And now that was Captain Archer, who had just entered Engineering and was coming towards them with long strides.

"What is going on?" Archer enquired, pointing a flashlight to, approximately, Phlox's chin. The man's face – what Phlox could see of it – was a study in composure, but it wasn't difficult to sense the worry and frustration that simmered just below the surface.

"I wish I could tell you, Captain," Hess replied a bit self-consciously. She cast a glance towards her Chief. "And I really wish Commander Tucker were in a condition to help me figure it out…"

"We're upwind. Think we're safe," the very man mumbled, in his characteristic drawl.

Archer looked at him and the frown that creased his brow deepened. "_Upwind_?"

"Southeast by east, Sir. Increasing. No change in sails?" Reed said, in what almost seemed a reply.

"_Sails_?" Archer passed a hand in front of Malcolm's eyes, which remained unblinking. "What on earth are they talking about – _winds_? Doc?"

"Uhm, they appear to be in a state of semiconsciousness," Phlox said, returning to study his readings. "It's as if they were daydreaming."

"The last thing I need in an emergency is for my senior staff to be _daydreaming_," Archer said, with a tight smile that had no mirth about it. "Can't you do anything?"

Phlox reached for his medical case and retrieved a hypospray. "This ought to wake them up." He placed it against Reed's neck and discharged it.

* * *

><p>Leaning a hand on the Forecastle's railing, Malcolm watched Drake study the sky, then look up at their sails. He still couldn't believe he was face to face with the man. But the gusts of wind on his face and the rolling of the ship under his feet both felt quite real. No, this was no bloody dream.<p>

"Indeed, it's increasing," Drake said. His bulging blue eyes narrowed as he fixed them on the closest ships of the fleet that surrounded them. Movement could be seen on the rope ladders. Calling out, he tersely instructed, "Mister Rutherford, we had better reef as well."

"Aye, Sir."

A moment later, Drake ran down the steps that led onto the main deck and with resolute steps headed towards the gallery astern, where Malcolm supposed the Captain's cabin would be.

"Aloft! Furl the topsails!"

As he climbed down from the Forecastle as well, Malcolm took in the ruddy man who had given that order, the ship's boatswain. He had a crop of red hair that – he was sure – hadn't been washed in months. The salty air had coiffured it in rough waves that looked thoroughly intractable. Well, on this ship and in this timeline people certainly didn't have the luxury of a shower. Or even a bath.

"Get moving, jump to it, boys!" Rutherford barked, even as some of the crew grabbed the shrouds – tapered nets that allowed one to get to the rigging – and started climbing.

Malcolm noticed Trip recoil and unobtrusively try to reach a hatchway leading below deck, and with a swift couple of steps positioned himself in such a way as to cover his friend's retreat, but the sudden move caught Rutherford's attention. The man was too alert and too clever to be fooled.

"Just where d'you think you're slipping off to, you rascal?" he bellowed.

Trip blanched. He opened his mouth to reply, but obviously couldn't think of anything to say.

"Get up the ratlines, if you care about the skin of your back!"

Trip's eyes got that steely blue that Malcolm knew meant angry resolve. He had to do something before the situation got out of hand. "Move it, lad," he gruffly ordered him, turning to face Trip squarely, his back to the boatswain, while his eyes conveyed a silent but eloquent _please_.

As a reply, Trip placed his hands on his hips, the image of stubborness. "Going _aloft_ wasn't part of our Starfleet training, Malcolm," he said through gritted teeth.

"What in the bloody hell are you waiting for?" Rutherford growled behind them. "How dare you-"

"Mister Rutherford, a word." Malcolm swivelled on his heels, putting himself in the way of the furious man. "On the Castle, if you please," he added, shifting his gaze from the boatswain's fuming eyes only for the brief instant it took to add over his shoulder, "You get up there, Tucker."

After a second or two, Trip grudgingly shuffled towards his task, and only then did Rutherford stiffly climb to the elevated Forecastle. Brilliant – Malcolm mused. How to get both men pissed off with him. He hesitated a moment, then went up to Trip.

"Look, I'm sorry, but you'll have to try and play the part," he said in a low voice. Trip, who had grabbed a rope, blew out a breath and looked up the mast. Malcolm followed his gaze, and had to admit he wouldn't want having to climb all the way up there. "Whatever you do, don't look down," he advised. "And do try to stay out of the boatswain's hair. He can make your life miserable, believe me."

"Aye, _Sir_," Trip hissed. "Can Your Lordship try and contact Enterprise, while I do my best not to drop thirty feet to the deck? Wouldn't want to dirty it. The boatswain might not like that."

Malcolm grimaced. "And how do you suppose I contact Enterprise? Look, we'll talk later, right now I've got to go mollify Rutherford."

He too had a part to play. He gave Trip a tentative smile of encouragement and left, silently praying that the man would be okay.

"Mister Rutherford, I share your irritation," he was saying a moment later, while he did his best to hide his worry about what was going on on the main mast. "However, Tucker wasn't trying to defy your orders; it's that he's no sailor. I doubt if he's ever set foot on a ship before. I recruited him because he's a good fighter. I've known him for a long time and I can vouch for him, he's a clever lad, the rest he'll learn fast."

Rutherford regarded him with scepticism. "I can't afford to make preferences, Sir. And I can't afford to have anyone set a bad example."

"Of course," Malcolm agreed. "Let's just give him a chance, shall we?"

"We're at war, Mister Reed. We need able people, not his kind," Rutherford spat out.

Malcolm straightened his shoulders, trying to cut an authoritative figure. "When the moment comes he'll prove his worth, mark my word. And in the meantime, I'll keep him in line, don't you worry."

He heard cheering and turned to see Trip reaching, one dogged step after the other, the the rest of the sailors already up there. He did look rather green, even from this distance, but Malcolm had to admit the man was gritty.

* * *

><p>"We may be upwind now, but the sodding winds can change. And fast," Malcolm said, eyes only for the Stegosaurus nearest them.<p>

The reasoning was sound. Trip couldn't disprove it. "How the hell did this happen?" he wondered under his breath. Crouching beside him, Malcolm was a block of granite, not a muscle twitching.

"I don't know," the man replied at length. "But as I remember you expressing the desire to see a Stegosaurus when we were studying that future vessel, it stands to reason this has something to do with that."

"But you wanted to go back to 1588," Trip countered. "Why are we here and not-"

"Don't," Malcolm jumped in, turning to give him one of his looks. "We have enough on our hands as it is."

Shaking his head, Trip reached for his communicator. "Tucker to Enterprise," he quietly paged, under sceptical grey eyes. All that came back was static. "Didn't really think it would work," he muttered, closing it and putting it back in his sleeve pocket. "So, what do you suggest we do?" After all, Malcolm was security, whereas as far as his professional expertise was concerned... Well, there wouldn't be an engine in quite a while.

"The hell if I know. I think we'd better-"

A ripple of nervousness ran through the herd, and Malcolm broke off. The animals had stopped grazing and had raised those weird small heads of theirs. There was a rustling noise; Trip and Malcolm turned. The vegetation was thick and lush, and they couldn't see through it, but something definitely was in there, making quite a bit of commotion.

"I think we'd better find ourselves a tree in which to climb, and fast," Malcolm finished his thought, in an urgent whisper.

TBC

I went to London in March when I was about half-way through this story, and took my kids to the wax museum; and who was there, for me to study in detail? Sir Francis Drake! :-)


	4. Chapter 4

§ 4 §

"I am sorry, Captain. Stimulants don't seem to do much else other than raise their heart rates."

Phlox sounded as baffled as Archer had ever seen him. "What exactly are you saying, Doc?" Archer enquired. He suspected he already knew the answer, but wanted to hear it anyway.

"What I'm saying, I suppose, is that I don't know what to do to bring your officers back from their… stupor." Phlox cradled his chin. "If we could get them to Sickbay I could run more tests," he reasoned, "but of course with the ship in this state I don't see how that could be managed."

"Up that tree," Trip urged, "before we become a quick meal."

Archer took a step to his Chief Engineer and studied him closely. The man wore an expression that was almost alien to him. One of deep trouble. A soft clearing of the throat brought Archer back from his musings, and he suddenly realised he'd been looking at Trip as he would a strange creature. T'Pol was standing there, eyebrows raised, hands latched behind her back, that look of Vulcan impassiveness about her.

"Captain, I have detected traces of the high-energy particles that..._ future_ vessel was emitting."

"The temporal radiation. You still don't believe it, do you? That it was from the future." Archer shook his head. The Science Vulcan Directorate be damned.

"What I do or don't believe is not important right now."

"Aloft," Reed muttered, making T'Pol's eyebrows lift again.

"Great. First it was winds, now it's climbing," Archer muttered.

T'Pol ran her eyes over Malcolm. The slightest hint of a frown creased her brow as she approached him, her Vulcan scanner raised. "The radiation I have detected is weak," she said as she moved the instrument up and down the man, "however..." She walked over to Trip and took readings off him, too; then lowered her scanner and raised unperturbed eyes on Archer. "It is particularly strong around the Commander and Lieutenant."

"Are you saying that's what is affecting the systems and these two?" Archer wondered, slowly winding his way around his two frozen officers.

"It is a possibility. Indeed, it is a logical assumption."

"It makes sense," Phlox put in in that blithe voice that invariably clashed with the mood of an emergency. "Your officers do seem to have… travelled to some other time."

"But they're here," Archer said with a frown.

Phlox's mouth stretched in a Denobulan extra-large smile. "There are many ways to travel, Captain."

Archer considered the words for a moment. "Assuming that is the way things are," he finally said, "how do we get out of this situation?" He looked around at Hess, then T'Pol and Phlox. "Any ideas?"

Silence reigned.

* * *

><p>Malcolm grabbed Trip's arm firmly as the man leaned overboard, heaving. He didn't want him to fall over and into the sea, black as the night that surrounded them. Sprays of seawater came at regular intervals, as the ship rose and fell on the waves, and no matter how much Malcolm turned his face away, he was getting soaked.<p>

Trip finally straightened. The poor bloke was holding on to the railing for dear life. He was drenched too, and looked quite pale; he had his eyes closed.

"Trip?" Malcolm asked in a small voice. He was beginning to have more than a few pangs of conscience. This, after all, was _his _wish come true and Trip was the one suffering. "Are you okay?"

"No."

Malcolm winced.

Looking like he was making a huge effort, Trip opened his eyes and turned to him, and to his credit he didn't even look mad. "Hell, it's not as if I've never been on a boat," he drawled out weakly, "but I swear, I've never been this sick."

"The sea's pretty rough. I'm surprised my motion sickness is leaving me alone," Malcolm wondered. That did get him a resentful look, but he felt it was deserved. It wasn't very fair that he was all right while Trip's stomach was inside out.

"Eight bells and all is well!"

The call brought Malcolm back to the here and now. Shift change. He put a hand to Trip's elbow and dragged him along the deck, to a quiet spot on the side of the Forecastle. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds. Thank God for that. It was already a miracle they'd made it through the day in one piece, and a bright night would have complicated things, for Malcolm was determined to make them scarce for a few hours, taking advantage of the darkness. Trip looked like he could use some rest, and they hadn't had time to talk yet.

"Couldn't ya have wished for somethin'… _different_?" Trip breathed out, sliding down the wooden planks to a sitting position. He drew up his knees against his chest. "Less... _antiquated_?"

Malcolm huffed out a chuckle. "If we'd had your wish we'd be back in the Jurassic."

"I'll pick that over this any day. I'd be watching some peaceful Stegosaurusses instead of having to climb up to the crow's nest."

"Blimey, I was afraid you wouldn't make it back down in one piece but you did great," Malcolm said, giving his friend's shoulder a couple of light pats.

Trip waved a dismissing hand. "Pure survival instinct."

He yawned. He looked ready to nod off, and when silence stretched Malcolm almost thought he had. But after a moment the man quietly asked, "So, how do we return to Enterprise?"

Despite the excitement of the adventure he had so often dreamt of, Malcolm had to admit that it was precisely the question that had been buzzing around his mind all day, and for which he had found no answer. _Yet_ – he forced himself to add.

"I don't know," he muttered darkly. Looking up at the sky, where no stars could be seen, a thought struck him. "If we really are back in 1588, Enterprise isn't even up there. On the other hand, if this is a dream..."

"... it's an awfully realistic one," Trip finished deadpan, hugging himself tight against the breeze. "I'd place my bet on the first."

Malcolm winced in silent agreement.

* * *

><p>"Get up here, quick!"<p>

Trip accepted Malcolm's proffered hand and the help it provided in reaching a sturdy branch that stretched out half-way-up a large tree with a thick canopy of large, rubbery leaves. He joined his friend astride it, his movements slowed by the tension that had his muscles in knots. Not that Malcolm, for all his proverbial cool, looked particularly relaxed. The man's eyes were as focused as laser beams as he tried to make out the source of the commotion they could hear coming their way.

Trip tore his gaze away to cast a look back at the herd of Stegosaurusses. The big male was snorting nervously; the group looked ready to move. The ground shook with the pounding of the heavy animals' anxious feet, and the leaves of their tree began to shake. But other leaves were rustling, and Trip jerked his head back in that direction.

"What do you suppose would make a group of Stegosaurusses nervous?" Malcolm wondered, and Trip knew by the way his voice dropped to that low octave where it barely vibrated that it wasn't really a question.

Eyes by now frozen open, Trip watched the vegetation part – or rather, succumb – as a monster forced its way through it.

"Bloody hell," Malcolm breathed out.

Well, that was a way of putting it. Trip could feel his heart beating against his ribcage, its thumps loud in his ears. All those movies, even the 3D ones, didn't quite do a T-Rex justice; reality was far worse. The proximity didn't help. The creature had halted at no further than five, six metres from them, still out of sight of the Stegosaurusses, which, in comparison, looked like peaceful pets.

Two powerful hindlimbs carried the beast's massive body, with a long tail balancing a huge head. The T-Rex's jaws were enormous, half-open, white froth at the corners, and lined with teeth that… Trip's mind refused to go further.

Trip's nose wrinkled. He could smell it. A wild, pungent stench. No, definitely the movies didn't quite get to that level of reality. Good thing T'Pol wasn't of the party, or she'd have probably fainted and fallen off.

Trip's eyes ran the creature up and down. It was incongruously disproportioned, with short forelimbs that ended, however, in fearful claws. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see Malcolm point upwards. As a matter of fact, at their present height they would make an easy prey for the creature. As easy as parting a few leaves and making a quick snack of them.

For a moment Trip silently debated whether it was a good idea to move, but Malcolm was already slowly lifting himself to a standing position, and this was no time to argue. Better follow the Security Officer's advice.

As carefully and silently as he could, he followed suit, touching with a light hand the branches around him for balance. He looked up at Malcolm, who was already on the next level, envious of his agility. Of course, the man had less weight to carry around, and the specific training of his line of work – Trip consoled himself as he took a tentative step.

It was the tension that damned him. He was so dreading the eventuality that the T-Rex would spot them, that when the growl came, he jumped. The branch they had been standing on was covered in moss; his foot slipped and he dropped like a ripe fruit, unable to catch hold of anything that would break his fall.

TBC

For those of you who object to having Stegosauruses and a T'Rex meet... let's say it's poetic license! :-)


	5. Chapter 5

Posting two chapters because I'll be away till Monday.

§ 5 §

"Hard at larboard!"

"All hands on deck! Double-quick time!"

Malcolm jerked awake. He was numb with cold. Trip, beside him, was beginning to stir.

"Where is Mister Reed?" Drake's voice boomed from somewhere on top of them – the Forecastle. "Find the bloody man!"

"Aye, Sir."

That was Rutherford, and the unfriendly tone of his voice, which managed to come through even in those two words, caused Malcolm to disregard the pins and needles in his right leg and jump to his feet. Limping, he grabbed Trip by one arm and helped him up. "I've got to go," he told the bleary-eyed man. "I'll catch up with you later."

Trip looked back in confusion, trembling with cold and not quite awake yet. But Malcolm could not waste any time. He squeezed his arm, and took off. "Wait!" he heard the man call. The wind tore the word away.

As Malcolm turned the corner into the main deck, he almost bumped into Rutherford, who gave him one of his sharpest looks. The boatswain opened his mouth to speak, but Malcolm didn't give him the chance. "Yes, I know," he anticipated him. He looked around. The deck was getting crowded with crewmen. They were all looking up at the Forecastle. Malcolm followed their gazes and saw Drake on top of it.

"The hour we've been looking for is here," the man said, in a loud, clear voice. "I know there isn't a faint-hearted among you." He unsheathed his sword and pointed it to the sky. "For England and Her Majesty, our Queen!"

"For England and Her Majesty, our Queen!" the men shouted in one voice.

"Gun crews to battle stations!" Rutherford called.

The men broke into activity. Malcolm caught sight of Trip and pushed through to him. "Get below deck, I'll join you as soon as possible," he urged. Trip made to reply, but Malcolm just couldn't spare the time. In a couple of strides he was at the Forecastle stairs and running them up.

"Sir." He snapped to attention near Drake, who was looking out to sea.

The man turned abruptly. "Mister Reed," he barked, "where the hell have you been?"

"My Lord, I-"

"Never mind," Drake cut him off – and all for the better, for Malcolm would have been hard pressed finding an excuse. "Get to your gunners. Let's sink those devils!"

He was a bundle of energy, the blue eyes almost feverish with anticipation. Malcolm took a moment to look at the scene before his eyes and felt his blood rush. The sight was like one of those old paintings – no, it was better. It was as glorious as he had imagined it in his most vivid dreams: the sea was scattered with ships, flags waving, sails bellowing, and crews at work like well-oiled machines.

He took a deep breath and filled his lungs with the salty air. "Aye, Sir!"

Dream or no dream, this – he thought as he hurried to the hatch that would carry him into the bowels of the ship – was going to be a special experience.

* * *

><p>"Trip!"<p>

On the ground – which, with its mosses and ferns had somewhat softened the impact of his fall – for a moment Trip felt detached from reality. He had time, for example, to analyse the note of terror in Malcolm's scream and muse that he had never quite heard it so clearly in the the man's voice. The situation, though, caught up with him in a rush. With a quick intake of breath, heart clenching in his chest, he realised that all he could really see, from this perspective, was dinosaur hide. There was just too much of it.

"Get up, for heaven's sake!" Malcolm urged.

Eyes fixed on the towering monster, who was moving his enormous head right and left as if slightly befuddled by the unexpected and unfamiliar shouts, Trip began to scramble to his feet, only to fall back down with a cry of pain. Not softened his fall _enough_… His right ankle had given out. It was sprained – hopefully not broken. Sweat was beginning to run down Trip's brow, stinging in what must be a few scratches, and he blinked in the effort to keep it out of his eyes.

"TRIP!"

Trip would have said something, but his mouth had gone dry. He tore his gaze away from the T-Rex just enough to look up and see that Malcolm was hanging from the lowest branch ape-like, one arm stretched out towards him, hand tensely urging him to get a move on.

He forced his mouth to work. "My ankle," he managed, and started once again to push to his feet. A growl that shook the leaves around him gave him the motivation to disregard the pain. He lifted himself to a standing position, weight all on his left leg, one hand to the large tree trunk for balance.

And then he made the mistake of looking back.

"Come on!" Malcolm cried out.

But Trip was frozen. The T-Rex had spotted him, and his head had lowered to his level, reptilian eyes looking at him from no further than a couple of metres. He could smell the beast's breath, could see the formidable teeth lining jaws that could almost swallow him whole.

With a grunt, the animal took another step forward.

* * *

><p>"Nothing, Sir."<p>

Archer restrained a wince as Hess threw her hands up in the air, blowing out a frustrated breath.

"The thing is, there's nothing to fix. All systems check out okay," the Engineer ranted, "and I really don't know what to do about that temporal radiation."

"What is affecting the ship is related to what is happening to the Commander and Lieutenant."

Archer turned to his Second in Command, this time restraining a tense smile. "Thank you, T'Pol," he said deadpan. At which she lifted one, almost condescending, eyebrow.

"What I meant is that _they_ are the clue to this. We should try to repair _them_, in order to get the ship's systems back online."

"I'm sure Mister Tucker and Mister Reed would be grateful," Phlox muttered.

Archer, who had been distracted by the conversation, returned to studying his officers. Sweat had broken visibly on their brows, and they looked far from relaxed.

"They worked in close contact with that ship," T'Pol reasoned. "It may be something to do with that. With your permission, I will study the recordings."

Archer nodded a silent assent, and she left.

* * *

><p>It hadn't taken long for their ship to get in the thick of it.<p>

Below deck was a beehive of activity. The crews, under the gunners' direct instructions, had loaded and fired the cannons a couple of times. The sound was deafening, the smell of gunpowder strong. It assaulted Malcolm's nostrils together with the stench of sweat and unwashed bodies, and the saltiness that permeated everything on the ship.

Malcolm found himself shouting orders as if he had been trained for this. And in a way he had. He had read about it far and wide, and was, after all, a tactical officer. However it was shocking how… _different_ this was from sitting at Enterprise's tactical station and pressing a button to fire.

"Steady now," Malcom shouted, walking the length of the larboard battery. "Wait for the ship to finish manoeuvering."

He could hear the boatswain's orders on the main deck, could picture those lean, strong men working the sails. Slowly, the two ships lined up.

"Ready, now! Fire!"

In front of him, a scrawny young man placed the lighted fuse over the vent of the cannon. The powder exploded and the cannon recoiled violently.

Shouts erupted a few metres away. That crew had scored a hit, though the main mast of the Spanish galleon was still standing. Almost immediately the enemy responded. A couple of cannonballs reached perilously close, falling with loud splashes into the sea.

"Cartredge!" Malcolm called out. The youth in front of him, rammed a flannel bag into the cannon mouth.

Malcolm's eyes ran to Trip, who was trying his best to fit into the picture. The Engineer had wisely chosen for himself an easy task – or been put to it, Malcolm didn't know which: loading the ball into the cannon.

"Now, lad," the gunner, a strong man with straight blond hair tied in a ponytail, told him. He looked quite weathered but could not be much over forty – if that. Malcolm watched Trip ease the heavy projectile into the cannon's mouth.

"Ready to have another go at 'em, Sir," the gunner said in a thick accent.

Malcolm gripped the hilt of his sword. "Fire!"

More hurrahs went up along the deck. The Spaniards had taken heavy damage. A smile was spreading over Malcolm's face when the ship banked, sending him to hold on to a pole.

"Man the starboard battery!" Rutherword shouted down.

The gun crews responded immediately. They tied down the larboard cannons and ran to the other side of the ship.

Malcolm took advantage to approach Trip.

"Havin' fun?" the man asked him, in a voice that said he wasn't having any.

Malcolm jerked his head sideways. "Too bad we already know who's going to win."

Trip scowled. "I thought you _liked_ to know things in advance," he said, obviously referring to their playful discussion about Jane Doe, when they'd been studying that future vessel.

Malcolm let out a chuckle. "Come on," he said, "we've got work to do."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Warning: angst ahead.

§ 6 §

A shadow fell before Trip's eyes. Half a second later Malcolm had landed in a crouched position in front of him.

Trip stared at him in confusion. But before he had time to even think, Malcolm had jumped back up to his feet, screaming and waving his arms like a madman.

The T-Rex snorted loudly. The huge head tilted swiftly to one side, the cold eyes seeking the source of all that commotion. The jaws opened up and let out a deep growl that raised the hair on Trip's neck and had the power – it felt – to stop time. Trip's knees were going to give out at any moment. His breath was coming in short gasps and all strength had left him.

"Malcolm," he mumbled.

Malcolm stopped abruptly. Not because he had heard him – Trip realised in shock. The unerringly stout Lieutenant Reed seemed as terrified as he was. His heaving shoulders and slightly quivering hands gave him out.

"Malcolm, for heaven's sake!" Trip choked out, reaching for him.

He didn't know what he was going to do, but the idea that the Security Officer felt it a duty to shield him with his own body didn't go down well with him. Not in this… _dream _of his, or whatever it was. However, he didn't even get to graze his hand against the man. Suddenly Malcolm bent down and grabbed a leafy branch that lay rotting on the ground. Then, with another mad scream, he took off, waving the branch in front of the beast's nose, undoubtedly to distract it from its original prey.

Trip cursed his clumsiness and sprained ankle. He took a stumbling step forward and pain shot up his leg. A cold dread fell over him as he realised he could do nothing to help. He was an impotent bystander in a tragedy he felt responsible for.

Malcolm had set a course for the thick of the wood, where the large animal would be slowed. But here, where the trees were sparse, despite its bulkiness the T-Rex moved at a surprising pace. The ground shook with the pounding of its giant steps. _Go, go, go!_ Trip screamed in his mind, falling back against the tree trunk for support. Malcolm would make it; he had always been nimble and fast, a lot faster than himself, despite his shorter stature.

And then the unthinkable happened. One moment Malcolm was running, the next he was on the ground. He had stumbled and fallen down. Trip felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. In a second, the T-Rex was on top of him. A bloodcurdling scream stirred something foul in Trip's stomach. He could hear his own hearbeat drumming loudly in his ears. Things seemed to happen in slow motion, sounds were distorted. And all he could think of was that this couldn't be true, this couldn't be happening. Surely it _must _be a dream.

But the screaming was all too real. Trip wanted to scream too, but he had no voice left. He watched the monster claw at Malcolm with those odd-looking, short but deadly forelimbs, tossing him about as if he were a toy; then go for the man with its ghastly jaws open.

That's when he couldn't stand it any more and closed his eyes.

* * *

><p>The cannon ball went through the hull with a deafening sound of wood breaking. The world tilted and Malcolm found himself on the floor, dazed. He shook his head to clear it.<p>

The first thing his mind focused on was the ragged hole just beside the nearest cannon port. He could see, through it, the battle raging. His eyes then fell on the destruction the ball had wreaked. Smoke. Flames, which a few crewmen were already putting out. Splinters everywhere. The blond gunner lay crushed by his weapon, which had toppled over. His face was contorted in a last grimace, eyes open but already staring into eternity. Malcolm blinked. He started to pick himself up.

"Load!" a voice ordered.

He jerked towards it. The other cannon crews were working without pause, mindless of the death and devastation a mere metres from them. One of the gunners was giving out the orders in his place.

"Fire!"

The ship thundered out with the boom of the explosions.

There was moaning, and Malcolm shifted his gaze searchingly. A couple of forms were writhing among the rubble. A stab went through his heart as he realised one of them was Trip.

Jumping to his feet, in his hurry he almost tripped over his sword. Damn the thing. With a wrench, he pulled it off and threw it away. A second later he was at Trip's side.

"I'm here, it's okay," he mumbled, starting to clear the pieces of rubble around him. But as soon as he turned Trip over and saw the large splinter of wood that protruded from his chest he knew that it was a lie. It wasn't okay at all. It wasn't going to be. Not in this century, without Phlox.

Trip fixed horrified eyes in his and clung to Malcolm's arms for dear life. Blood gushed from a cut on his forehead. Half of his face was covered in it; the other half looked as pale as a sheet. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a groan came out.

"Don't," Malcolm choked out.

Trip touched a hand to Malcolm's chest-piece, made of thick, protective leather, and an eloquent smirk twisted his features. Malcolm swallowed hard. Yes, at this point in time equality was a long way away. Grabbing Trip as delicately as he could, he dragged him further away from the hull breach, towards the middle of the deck.

"Help," another voice pleaded.

The scrawny youth was reaching out to Malcolm with one outstretched arm. The other one, he saw, had been severed at the elbow. He could see bone.

Nausea was beginning to rise in Malcolm's throat, but he pushed it down forcefully, as he looked around in despair. Wasn't there a doctor on these ships? He caught the eye of the gunner manning the next cannon

"What are you waitin' for, bring 'im down to the surgeon!" the man shouted, none too kindly.

A surgeon! Malcolm disregarded the tone and allowed a small ray of hope to enter his heart.

"Go on," the man urged, mistaking his surprise for hesitation. "We don't need _you_ to tell us when to fire," he snorted.

Numb as he was, nothing could hurt Malcolm, not even the scorn that oozed from the man's voice. There was no place for more hurt in his heart right now.

Malcolm started to pick Trip up.

"Bloody hell, not _him_, can't you see he's as good as dead?" the gunner shouted. He pointed to the maimed youth, who was slowly dragging himself towards Malcolm. "Jacobs! Get 'im to the surgeon!"

* * *

><p>The screaming had ceased, which didn't bode well, but… now there was a new sound. That's what made Trip open his eyes again. What he saw made his jaw drop. A battle of giants.<p>

The large Stegosaurus male, feeling perhaps that he had to protect his herd, had come to confront the threat. He was lashing out with his powerful tail, ending in those fearsome points. Despite its renown as the more dangerous of the two, the T-Rex had taken a few hits and backed off. The Stegosaurus went off in the other direction and turned, letting out a loud, warning screech. If it was meant to keep the other beast at a distance, it didn't work. With a growl of his own, the T-Rex charged again.

It was a terrifying spectacle. But what mattered to Trip was that the two creatures, in the heat of their violent fight, were moving off. Trip forced his eyes away from them and searched the ground. It didn't take him long to spot Malcolm: he lay immobile, a bloodied lump.

Trip looked around him frantically for a branch to use as a cane. Cursing his luck, he let himself drop on the ground and started towards the motionless form in a crawl.

"Malcolm," he breathed out, when he finally reached the man.

Trip's hands were hovering over his friend's body, uncertain what to do. He was afraid to touch him. His eyes tracked from Malcolm's face down along his body, which was a battlefield of lacerations and punctures. Trip could see the marks left on him by the T-Rex's awesome teeth: they designed a arch oozing blood all along Malcolm's body, from his right shoulder to his right knee. He didn't want to think what kind of damage those crushing jaws had caused to his friend's skeletal structure and internal organs.

Finally, Trip found the courage to feel for a pulse, putting two fingers at the base of Malcolm's neck. It took him an interminable moment to find it, and it was so faint that it plunged him into despair. Malcolm wasn't going to survive this, and it was all his fault.

TBC

Ah, but they're alive on Enterprise, aren't they?


	7. Chapter 7

Warning: implied death of characters

§ 7 §

Archer could not stay still and had taken to pacing. Engineering was beginning to feel crowded, what with the immobile forms of Trip and Malcolm, Phlox who hovered about them, and himself, all more or less in the way of Hess and her team. The place was actually beginning to feel also like a cross between Sickbay and his Ready Room. But until power was restored he certainly wasn't going to climb up three decks, only to find himself on a darkened Bridge, out of touch with the situation.

Talking of power… How was T'Pol going to study that recording, if main power was off? Hess had given instructions not to use auxiliary power for anything that wouldn't be of vital importance. Mind you, if T'Pol was right, her research _would be_ of vital importance…

With a clang that was louder than usual – or so it sounded in the silenced ship – the hatch opened and the very lady appeared. She searched the darkened room for a moment, and Archer, who had withdrawn to a quiet corner, lifted an arm to attract her attention.

"Found anything?" he asked her as she approached with Vulcan calm.

"Possibly."

She stopped at his side and showed him a padd. She punched the play button. A recording started playing. Trip was entering the launchbay where they'd held that future ship, saying, _Now if I had a chance to see the past, I'd jump at it. I always wanted to meet a Stegosaurus_.

_He'd probably make a quick meal of you_, Malcolm, who was following him, bantered.

Archer frowned.

_The Stegosaurus was an herbivore_, Trip said, in a lecturing tone.

_If I could travel back in time, I know exactly what year I'd pick. 1588_, Malcolm went on.

_What happened in 1588?_

_England defeated the Spanish Armada_.

_I'm sure someone named Reed had a lot to do with that_.

T'Pol stopped the recording. "You will remember the Commander and Lieutenant went to the Doctor because they were having the same conversation over and over again." She locked eyes with Archer. "This was it."

She looked at Archer as if that explained anything, and it took him a moment to put two and two together.

"Are you telling me they are…" – he shrugged, looking for a way to put his thoughts into words that would make any sense – "living those wishes of theirs?"

"I cannot not know for certain, Captain, but..." She looked at Reed. "_Aloft_?" she wondered, eyebrows fully raised. "_Six fathom by the lead_?" Now she turned to Trip."_Up that tree, before we do become a quick meal_? From the words you tell me the Commander and Lieutenant have said, something like that seems plausible."

Hell, she was right. Trip _had _muttered that, not that long before. Archer huffed out a frustrated breath. "But when Malcolm and I removed that torpedo warhead things kept repeating too," he wondered. "So why hasn't anything happened to me?"

T'Pol looked at him with that slightly condescending air that, at the beginning of their mission, he had so hated. Except now he had learned to accept if for what it was: Vulcan calm in the face of Human _agitation_.

"As you rightly pointed out, they expressed wishes. It almost seems as if… _someone_ is granting them those wishes, and keeping the ship hostage in the meantime."

"Great," Archer muttered.

T'Pol lifted her eyebrows. "I believe this _someone_ wishes us no harm. Life support is still working."

It was somewhat reassuring, Archer had to admit. He narrowed his eyes. "Downloading the recording on a padd was a clever idea," he said. "It saved using too much auxiliary power."

"I already had," T'Pol said.

Archer thought he hadn't heard well. "What was that?"

"I already had downloaded all the data pertinent to that ship on a padd before this happened," T'Pol said, after a slight hesitation.

Archer was hard pressed hiding a smile. So she could study it without it being too apparent? he wondered.

"I see." He nodded gravely. "Let me know if you ever decide to dispute the Vulcan Science Directorate on the issue of time travel, Subcommander."

* * *

><p>Malcolm looked at Jacobs. Somehow the poor bloke still had the strength to drag himself over the rubble, though he wasn't making much headway and was moaning pitifully. It was a heart-breaking sight. The gunner was still shouting, but his words were lost on him, because the world – be it imaginary or, God forbid, real – seemed muffled. Malcolm was drowning. Drowning in guilt, impotence, and now also in indecision. His conscience was split in two. He should help Jacobs, but he just couldn't leave Trip's side.<p>

Feeling Trip's grasp on his arms weaken, he tore his eyes away from Jacobs and looked down at the friend in his arms. The gunner was right. Trip was dying: he was wheezing, his gaze getting glazed. Malcolm had seen death enough times to recognise when it was near.

"You bloody ass, get Jacobs down!" the gunner shouted once more.

He was mad as hell, and Malcolm could not blame him. "I…" he started, but a knot in his throat choked him.

Trip's hand tightened slightly and Malcolm struggled to see him through the veil that was now blurring his sight. Another explosion rattled the deck. He didn't even know whether it was their cannons firing, or the Spaniards' any more. He didn't care.

"Duty," Trip forced out.

Malcolm shook his head, refusing to give in to the idea.

"Duty… first," Trip wheezed.

The words finally stirred something in Malcolm. He swallowed hard, past that painful knot, and took a breath to try and lift the weight that was crushing his heart. "I'll be right back," he whispered. "Don't give up on me."

Trying to ignore Trip's pained moans, he put him gently down on the deck; then jumped to his feet and picked up a – by now – unconscious Jacobs. The youth was heavier than he looked; Malcolm tottered for a moment, looking around for the right direction. Finally, he spotted a stairway leading to the lower deck and hurried towards it.

"He'd better not die, you snot," the gunner shouted after him, "or, by God! I'll have you hanged!"

* * *

><p>Malcolm's eyes fluttered open, and his breath hitched.<p>

"Easy, easy," Trip urged.

Malcolm's face had death painted on it already. The sun was scorching, and Trip tried to convince himself that what was running down his face were drops of sweat, but he was immediately disabused of that notion.

"That bad?" Malcolm managed in a strained voice.

He tried to look at himself, at his wounds, but fell listlessly back in Trip's arms with a moan. Trip couldn't take this. He couldn't possibly go through the pain of holding a friend during his final moments, and all because of a wish he had expressed in banter. He bit his lip hard and looked away at the herd of Stegosauruses, which were grazing peacefully again. Some of the group had come in aid of the big male, and together they had chased the T-Rex away. Trip shifted his gaze off them, creatures of damnation, and forced it back to Malcolm.

"You shouldn't have," he choked out. "You should have let me-"

Emotion closed his throat, cutting him off. Malcolm was fading fast, and his breathing had that… Trip shivered, stopping his mind before it could finish the thought.

"Du… ty…" the man stubbornly managed.

That word summed up Malcolm so well. The Lieutenant had always held duty and honour very high. Above his own life.

Malcolm's eyes slowly drifted closed, and Trip knew he'd never see them open again; never see their reassuring steadfastness, or catch that glimpse of dry humour that sometimes flashed through them.

* * *

><p>The <em>surgeon<em> was a pot-bellied man so dirty-looking that he could probably infect a wound just by glancing at it. When Malcolm got down to the Sickbay, he was struggling with an injured man who was writhing on a wooden table, screaming.

"Give me a hand, here," the Doctor shouted as soon as he spotted Malcolm. His eyes ran to Jacobs, and he lifted his fatty chin in his direction. "Put him down."

Helping a doctor was the last thing Malcolm wanted to do in the best of circumstances, and these were far from that. This wasn't the pristine environment where Phlox worked. He was beginning to feel nauseous. All he could see was blood. Blood on the doctor, blood on the table, blood on the floor, blood on the injured man, blood on Jacobs, blood on himself. All he could smell was blood.

"I can't," he muttered. But the doctor didn't hear him, too busy once again trying to subdue his patient.

Then, all of a sudden, the struggle was over and there was silence. Malcolm didn't want to think what that might mean. He gently deposited Jacobs on the ground, and with a last look, hurried back up the stairs.

Even before crouching at Trip's side, his heart knew. Trip lay too still, with his eyes half-closed. Blinking back tears, Malcolm felt for a pulse he knew he would not find. Trip's head was turned towards the stairs leading to Sickbay, one arm outstretched as if to reach out to him, and he felt something shatter inside. Trip had died alone, waiting in vain for his friend to return. Oblivious to all that was going on around him, Malcolm reached with a trembling hand and closed Trip's eyes.

"No…" he mumbled, unable to believe this was happening. He felt his breathing quicken. "I don't care about defeating the Spanish Armada!"

* * *

><p>Trip didn't know the exact moment when Malcolm passed away. The man didn't stir any more, and he had held him close, he didn't know for how long; long past the point when he had felt, without having to check, that his friend was no longer with him.<p>

Silence, in this world before his world, was thick. All Trip could hear was the buzzing of flies hovering about them. In a daze, he waved them off Malcolm's forehead. Not that he could ever succeed. Dozens more were coming, attracted by death.

Dammit. He wasn't even good for that. Anger mounted within him. This wasn't fair!

"I _hate_ them!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "I hate the darn dinosaurs!"

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Sorry for the slight delay in posting this new chapter. Hope you'll forgive me!

§ 8 §

This wasn't war, this was butchery. Malcolm felt revulsion stir deep inside him. A sudden dizziness made him fall back against one of the barrels behind which he was hiding, and behind which he had dragged Trip's body in spite the gunner's threats and accusations of cowardice, wanting some privacy.

The world he had admired, the noble world in awe of which he had been raised, didn't exist. In its place was this incredible brutality, this denial of humanity, this cruel game. It made an important part of his very being crumble; made him doubt the legitimacy of his own roots, the validity of his beliefs.

_You got into this profession to protect, not to kill_, he reminded himself; but he couldn't dismiss the knowledge that if he pressed a button on his tactical console and fired a phase cannon it would wreak the same terrible damage he had witnessed here. Or worse.

He was so sick at heart that it took him a long moment to realise that the cannons had been silent and the crew was cheering. Of course. They had won, as he had known they would. But at what price…

Malcolm looked down at Trip's pale face, at the blood that covered him and his own body. Blood of his best friend; blood of that young man he had barely known.

"How could I ever wish to be here," he choked out.

What was he going to do now? He had always been a private person, but for the first time he felt on the edge of a bottomless abyss of loneliness. He could never adapt to this world. It would have been better for him to die in battle as well. A lot better than to be left alone; a lot better, too, than to be hanged for cowardice. The irony of it! Good thing his father wasn't part of this.

Reeds didn't cry, but right now he wished he could release in tears the anguish that had him in its grip. "Please, let this be a dream," he prayed to the God he so often forgot about. "Let me wake up aboard Enterprise."

* * *

><p>The battle with the flies was a lost cause. They weren't any easier to chase away than the T-Rex – Trip decided – though a lot safer to be around.<p>

Trip waved them off one last time; then let his arm fall listlessly to his side, giving up the fight against their insistent siege. They immediately covered Malcolm's face. The sight was nauseating. With an effort – it felt like it weighed a ton – Trip lifted his head and looked away, around himself. The sun was lower over the horizon of the dusty plain. How long had he been kneeling there, cradling his friend's lifeless body?

Loneliness clawed at him. It tore him inside. What was he going to do, the only human being on the face of the planet? It would have been better to die with Malcolm. Life might be the greatest good one possessed, but even it could lose its meaning, couldn't it. Right now, right here, his life had no meaning. This world had no use for him. Right now, right here, to go on living was a lot scarier than to die. His mind scuttled to places he never would have thought, and he bit his lip hard to bring it back.

No, he wouldn't give in to despair. He should get up. He should let go of Malcolm and get up; find something with which to dig a grave; lay his friend to rest at least. But his limbs were unresponsive.

"What was I thinkin', wanting to see a Stegosaurus," he croaked out aloud, to the inert form in his arms. "What the hell did I think it would be like?"

A knot closed his throat. There was nothing glorious in this era of Earth's history. There was nothing noble in those ungainly giants over which he had fantasized as a kid. This was a harsh reality of a world incompatible with man's very existence. He missed his ship, he missed his friends, and the guilt he felt was so crushing, that for a moment he hoped it would kill him.

"I should've realised," he said brokenly. "Please, let this be a dream. Let me wake up aboard Enterprise."

He closed his eyes against the tears that stung behind them, but all that he accomplished was to make them overflow.

* * *

><p>"Stand back."<p>

When Phlox got that snappy, foregoing even the little words of courtesy like _please _or _would you_, Archer knew he had to shut up and obey. Not that he had any reason to object. With a quick step, he got out of the way, as a cold dread deposited itself on his stomach. It was the feeling that his CMO still seemed to grope about in the darkness – no pun intended – while Trip and Malcolm weren't getting any better. On the contrary, they looked veritably distraught, uttering broken words in a broken voice. All of Engineering had stopped working, all eyes riveted on the disturbing scene.

"I need to take them to Sickbay," Phlox said, sounding frustrated. "Their heartrate is getting dangerously high. They are having trouble breathing. I can't face a medical emergency here!"

Archer sought Hess's gaze. "Can we reroute enough auxiliary power to a turbo lift for enough time to manage that? And then to Sickbay?"

Her mouth twisted to one side as she briefly considered the questions. "If we must, yes."

"Do it," Archer ordered tersely.

"Aye, Sir."

And just as she turned to start working on that, unexpectedly, main power was back.

"What the..." Hess wondered.

Archer instinctively squinted against the bright lights. With a low whine, their technological world was coming back to life. As he looked around, he noticed movement where a moment before there had been none: Malcolm was stumbling, finally taking the step he'd been frozen in the middle of for hours. Phlox reached out to support him, but the Lieutenant regained his balance on his own and blinked. Trip, at his console, blinked back. They looked at each other, their faces pale and shiny with perspiration. Then, without a word, both crumpled to the floor.

* * *

><p>"Captain."<p>

Phlox had definitely regained his jollity, Archer mused with relief as he entered Sickbay a couple of hours later. His eyes ran immediately to the only patients in the now brightly-lit Sickbay. Trip and Malcolm were fast asleep, and the creases of anxiety had disappeared from their faces.

"Doc?" Archer enquired.

"I am happy to report that your officers are going to be fine," Phlox explained as he showed him to the biobeds. "I have given them a slight sedative to help them rest. All my tests have shown only an inexplicable state of exhaustion. It's as if the Commander and Lieutenant had been on an extremely tiring away mission."

Archer took in the words. He reached out to put a gentle hand on Trip's shoulder. "I suppose we'll have to wait for them to wake up, to know what happened," he said.

Phlox brought a hand to cradle his chin. "Provided they will remember, Captain," he said pensively, "and they will want to tell us..."

* * *

><p>The first thought Trip had when he opened his eyes to unmistakably white surroundings was that he must have done something stupid in Engineering to end up in Sickbay. A few seconds later, as he was trying to remember exactly <em>what<em>, something flashed before his mind's eye, and he found himself suddenly sitting upright in bed.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," a drowsy voice said.

Trip turned to his left. Malcolm, lying on his side on the next biobed, was looking at him with somewhat guarded eyes.

"Hi," Trip stuttered. The image of Malcolm dying in his arms in a sun-scorched prehistoric meadow was still hauntingly fresh, and he was momentarily displaced. He ran his eyes up and down his friend's body, and no bandages could be seen, not even a little one. He fell back down, relief washing over him like a cool shower. Malcolm was alive and well; obviously that dreadful image belonged to the world of dreams. It wasn't long, though, before another knot of concern formed. For if Malcolm was alive and well, what was he doing here in Sickbay? What were _they_ doing here? He tentatively moved his ankle, the one he had sprained falling from the tree, and it was fine.

Trip frowned. "What the hell happened?" he wondered, speaking as much to himself as to his friend.

Malcolm, who was still looking at him in that slightly distracted way, heaved a deep sigh. "I don't quite know. Phlox has been noticeably absent. Not that I miss him, mind you."

There was a long pause of silence.

Well, what Trip did know, was that the trail of his bad dream still haunted him. The image of Malcolm bleeding to death kept flashing through his mind, bringing with it an incredible burden of guilt, and at long last he blurted out, without thiking, "Perhaps you oughtta have said _Welcome_ _back_ _to this place and century_."

With a surprising, startled reaction, Malcolm's eyes widened, before shifting away. His face coloured a little.

"Look, Trip..." he started, in a hoarse voice. Like quicksilver, the grey eyes shifted back to him, deep, disturbed, and then away again. "I don't know how it happened, if it was a dream or... Well, it obviously _was_ a dream, but..." Slowly, he pushed up to a sitting position, legs dangling off the side of the biobed, facing him. He grabbed the edge of the bed for support. "I want you to know that I am sorry," he said in earnest, finally meeting Trip's gaze long enough. "Bloody hell, it was terrible."

Trip looked back uncomprehendingly. Had Malcolm lived his same experience? And if he had, what did he have to be sorry for: giving his life to save him from a T-Rex bent on eating him alive? Ah – of course. The poor devil must be sorry about not being able to protect him.

Malcolm passed a hand through his hair, eyes closing for a long moment. "I never thought it would be that awful, I..."

"Look, Malcolm," Trip put in, taking advantage of his hesitation, "Doing what you did because of duty was-"

"I've never felt so torn in my life," Malcolm cut him off in a dark voice. "It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I had to."

Trip felt another gut-wrenching pang of guilt. It wasn't like Malcolm to confess that he had been anguished to face that T-Rex, but he had done it because it had been his duty to save him. "You shouldn't have," he said, wincing. "Honestly, Malcolm, under the circumstances you shouldn't have."

That, for some reason, brought shock on Malcolm's face.

"Then when why did you tell me to..." the man wondered. Some kind of understanding dawned on his face, bringing with it what looked like dismay. "I see, you didn't mean it, you were being sarcastic. Me and duty." He gave a bitter huff. "The blind, strict idiot who can see no further!"

_What?_

"When I came back up to the cannons' deck and found you had-"

"Hold on, hold on." Trip, whose frown had deepened with each word, slowly pushed to sitting like Malcolm, facing him. "Cannons' deck?" His perspective was being turned belly up, but if the thought that was peeking in his mind was anywhere close to the truth, then... He refocused on Malcolm's face, which now had a wary question mark on it. "Let me guess," Trip said seeking the grey gaze and capturing it, "1588?"

Malcolm's mouth opened, but for a long moment no sound came out of it. The wheels in his brain were obviously turning full speed. "Well, yes," he finally said, and his tone had subtly changed. There was less guilt in it and a touch of intrigue. "Why?"

"And I suppose I was there too."

"Yes."

The word had been drawn out slowly, a sure symptom that Malcolm was coming to his own conclusions. Trip bit his lip. "I guess we didn't have the same dream. Or whatever it was."

"Or whatever it was," Malcolm echoed thoughtfully. His eyebrows shot up. "Stegosaurus?" he asked.

Trip nodded gravely. "More than one. And a charming T-Rex."

Malcolm's posture relaxed. It was as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. And then his eyes narrowed.

"And, pray tell me," he asked, "what should I _not_ have done, under _what_ circumstances?"

Now, that – Trip thought – was a loaded question. But he had one too. "What did you find that I had done, when you came back to the _cannons'_ deck?" he countered.

"Nothing. You had done nothing," Malcolm said hoarsely. "Of course it's difficult to do anything when one is dead."

Ah. Trip had half-expected it. But he could tell there was more. The grey eyes had shifted away again. "How did I die?" he asked. "Come on, Malcolm, it was only a dream," he patiently pressed, when the man hesitated.

"Or whatever it was," Malcolm reminded him deadpan. "Don't you think it strange that we both had a... _dream_, for lack of a better word, which granted us just the wish we had expressed? Smells fishy to me."

Trip looked back unmoved. "How did I die?"

Malcolm grimaced. "You received a fatal wound in battle," he finally revealed. Blowing out a slow breath, he went on, "You died alone, because I had to tend to another man, had to bring him down to the ship surgeon. I didn't want to leave you," he suddenly burst out, "but you urged me to go, to do my duty, and I thought... But when I came back..."

He broke off, and Trip could tell how painful the memory was. Of course he could.

"Ah, don't feel bad," he said, capturing those forever shifting grey eyes. "In my dream-or-whatever-it-was, you died too." He waited for Malcolm to have absorbed that before continuing, "You died torn to shreds by a T-Rex that was chasing you because you had done your best to distract it from its original prey – _me_."

They looked at each other in silence, at a loss for words for a moment; then Malcolm smirked.

"Sloppy security job," he commented, half-seriously.

Trip rolled his eyes. "Damn courageous deed, from where I stood."

"I thought you'd expressed the wish to see a _herbivore_," Malcolm went on.

"Yeah. Hadn't considered the possibility that it might share its playground with some rather toothy friends."

"Oh."

Trip gave a shrug. "Wasn't all I had expected, the Stegosaurus."

Malcolm nodded gravely. "Messy affair, defeating the Spanish Armada."

TBC

An epilogue will wrap it all up.


	9. Chapter 9

A big thank you to all who have read and especially reviewed.

_§ Epilogue §_

The Sickbay doors opened and a well-known voice sounded.

"Ah! My patients both awake. How are you feeling, Commander, Lieutenant?"

Trip caught Malcolm's low "Oh, bother," and smiled. It felt good to smile. Malcolm saw him and responded, his mouth fleetingly curving up as well, and they were definitely back to the now and then.

"Very well, Doc, thanks," Trip said, turning to welcome Phlox.

"Lovely, yes," Malcolm echoed, starting to slide off the biobed.

"Ah, ah, not so fast, Lieutenant." Phlox stopped at the foot of the biobeds. "I haven't dismissed you yet."

"Are we sick?" Malcolm enquired.

Phlox gave a perfunctory smile. "Strictly speaking, no."

"Well, then," Malcolm challenged.

Trip shot him a warning look. Malcolm's aversion to Sickbay was well-known, but the man shouldn't take it out on Phlox. "What happened, Doc?" he butted in, before the two could engage in one of their verbal skirmishes. "We have determined that we both had strange dreams, but don't know why we are here."

"You and the Lieutenant suddently stopped functioning," Phlox said, while he raised his scanner on him, "just like some of the ship's systems. You were... _frozen_ – so to speak – for a few hours. You said strange words, and towards the end both looked in great distress."

"We were living some rather distressing adventures," Trip said, with a quick glance at Malcolm.

Phlox's natural curiosity was immediately piqued. He lowered his scanner. "Really? What kind of adventures?"

Trip exchanged another, rather eloquent glance with Malcolm. "Ah, Doc, we really would like to keep the details to ourselves. They're kinda... personal," he said, jerking his head to one side to stress the point.

That obviously only served to intrigue Phlox even further. He hurrumphed an "of course," looking slightly disappointed, and went on to pass his scanner over Malcolm.

"You seem fine and well rested," he finally said. "I suppose there is no reason for me to keep you here.

A genuine smile blossomed on Malcolm's face, and he jumped off the bed. Trip followed suit.

"Ah – the Captain was eager to speak to you two," Phlox added with somewhat cruel timing as they were about to exit Sickbay. He gave one of his smiles. "He wanted me to call him when you were awake. You'll find him in his Ready Room."

* * *

><p>"Trip, Malcolm... I thought you were still in Sickbay."<p>

Archer looked away from T'Pol, surprised to see his two officers at the door of his Ready Room, and as he swivelled in his seat to greet them he couldn't refrain from visually scanning them for traces of... Well, even he didn't know exactly what. Trip, of course, saw that and gave him a reassuring smile.

"We're fine, Capt'n," he said, anticipating Archer who was opening his mouth to ask the very question. "Phlox's just given us the green light."

"That's great to hear."

"All's well that ends well," Malcolm echoed, a little self-consciously.

T'Pol, who had been standing in front of Archer's desk when the two had arrived, turned. "It is agreeable to see you have... recovered," she said.

Archer wasn't sure what to read on her face, given that her utmost expression of emotion was a standard lift of eyebrows, but what the hell. Sooner or later he would learn to interpret even that. Things had already come a long way with his Vulcan SIC since they had launched, and he knew, at least, that her words were sincere. He made his eyes smile under a slightly humorous frown. "Don't you perhaps mean _returned_?" Shifting his attention back to Trip and Malcolm, he continued, "We have a theory about what happened to you. One that was formulated by the Subcommander here."

Malcolm sneaked a glance at Trip; then cleared his throat. "I for one would like to hear it, Sir."

Archer waved a hand. "Be my guest, T'Pol. The honour is all yours."

Latching her hands behind her back, T'Pol looked squarely at Trip, who was leaning back against the door, arms crossed over his chest, and then at Malcolm, standing much more formally near him.

"From the levels of temporal radiation I registered, from the few words you and the Commander said during your... impairment," she began, "and from the recording of the incident with that peculiar vessel we encountered, I believe you were simply granted the wishes you expressed in the launchbay, when you were studying that ship."

A slight blush coloured Malcolm's cheeks.

"What d'ya mean _simply granted the wishes_," Trip wondered, uncrossing his arms.

"Do I take it T'Pol is right, then?" Archer butted in. "That you went to prehistoric times," he looked at Trip, "and you," he shifted his gaze to Malcolm, "back to 1588?"

The two exchanged an awkward glance that spoke aplenty.

"Sort of," Trip admitted, blowing out a breath. "More exactly, we both went to both places, though each of us can only remember one experience." He winced. "But it _was_ a dream, wasn't it?"

Archer studied his two officers. They looked quite uncomfortable. And Trip's question – the way he had made it sound – confirmed, if there was any need, that the adventure hadn't exactly been very pleasant.

"I have not been able to ascertain it yet," T'Pol said.

"I understand we were in Engineering the entire time," Malcolm told her with a touch of sarcasm. "It seems to me there isn't much to ascertain."

T'Pol heaved what Archer would have once thought was a patronising breath.

"On the contrary, Lieutenant. Bilocation is a phenomenon that many philosophical systems recognise as possible. Moreover, I registered the highest levels of temporal radiation close to you, during the incident."

Pragmatic Malcolm put on a sceptical look. "You don't mean to tell me we were in two places at the same time," he huffed.

"Actually three places," Trip corrected, "given that each of us was in each other's dreamland. And aren't you the one who doesn't believe in time-travel, Subcommander?" he wondered.

It was T'Pol's time to look uncomfortable, Archer decided – Vulcanly uncomfortable, that was; which translated into an imperceptible twitch of the mouth.

"I merely formulated an hypothesis," she parried. "Science is about formulating hypotheses and proving them. And the evidence in support of that vessel being from some timeline in the future appears... acceptable," she reluctantly admitted. "I will submit it to the Vulcan Science Directorate."

"But why did the ship's systems fail?" Malcolm asked in a smoky voice. "What has that to do with our experience?"

T'Pol shot a glance at Archer. "That's what I had come here to tell you, Captain. It is possible that if the Commander and Lieutenant were sent back in time this environment had to temporarily be put on hold, to allow a safe return."

Archer shook his head pensively. "What I think, is that in this story there are many questions that will go without answers," he said. "I doubt we'll ever discover whether you had a dream or a real experience, why the ship was disabled, or – last but not least – who was responsible for all that."

"The important thing is that everything is back to normal," Trip said. His face reshaped to sudden uncertainty. "It is, isn't it? I'd better get down to Engineering."

Malcolm nodded in agreement. "And I to the Armoury. We can't afford to have Weapons systems working at any less than one hundred percent."

"Hold your horses." Archer raised restraining hands. "I assure you, everything is under control. Besides, I doubt Phlox would approve you going right back on duty, at nineteen-hundred hours."

Another quick glance passed between Trip and Malcolm. Those two really had developed subtle communication channels. Nothing pleased Archer more than to see close friendships developing among his crew.

It was Trip who spoke.

"If that'll be all, then, Capt'n, we'll go to our quarters."

Archer gave them a nod and a smile. "Enjoy your evening, gentlemen."

As he watched his officers leave, he wondered if Trip would ever tell him about his day on prehistoric Earth. He was quite sure, on the other hand, that he'd never get to know what a day in 1588 had been like.

* * *

><p>Malcolm stopped in front of his quarters and turned to Trip. After leaving the Captain's Ready Room they had walked in silence, each absorbed in their own thoughts, and now that they were about to part he wasn't sure what to say.<p>

"I wish this had never happened," he blurted out in the end, almost without knowing.

Trip looked at him in that way, the one that made him quite self-conscious, and he felt he had to explain.

"It's just that... it has made me reassess a lot of things," he huffed out. Not that it clarified much, but for once it was difficult to put his thoughts and feelings into words.

"You mean you saw in the face the ugliness that history books conveniently forget to describe?"

Right. Malcolm shrugged an assent, and thought Trip's grave nod was a way of saying that the same had happened to him.

"More than that," Malcolm went on hoarsely. "I wonder how much a part of that ugliness I am myself, given that I sort of come from that world."

Trip gave him an obdurate look. "You've got to be kiddin', Malcolm. We've come a long way since 1588."

Malcolm winced, too confused to keep things inside. He glanced down the empty corridor. "When I press the button on my tactical console, I am just as… _devastating_ as the gunners behind those cannons."

Trip rolled his eyes. "I think you need another few hours of sleep," he said deadpan. He put his hands on his hips. "Come on, Lieutenant, you're a decent guy. I've never seen you do anything that went against the code of honour. Nowadays we try to solve our differences by diplomacy, if you haven't noticed, and you are onboard only to defend us."

Malcolm didn't know if that was enough comfort. If it would chase away the ghosts. Or if it should.

"What _I_ have learned," Trip went on, "is that we shouldn't wrap the past in such a golden aura. What I have learned, is that no time is better than the present."

"I'll drink to that."

Trip gave him a vigorous pat on the shoulder, and Malcolm stumbled. "See ya around." And with that he started towards his quarters.

Malcolm watched him walk away. The man was about to turn the corner when he stopped. "Oh, by the way," he added, turning.

"What?" Malcolm leaned a shoulder against the door frame and crossed his arms over his chest.

Trip scratched is forehead. "I was thinkin'... it's a pity whoever did this to us didn't grant you your other wish."

"What other wish? I didn't express any other wish."

"Of course you did. You wanted to know who your Jane Doe will be."

Malcolm groaned. "Give me the Spanish Armada any day..."

"Careful..." Trip warned in a singsong. And he disappeared around the corner.

THE END

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